Promise of Darkness (Dark Court Rising Book 1)

by Bec McMaster

  “Please.” I’m undulating against him, grinding shamelessly against the hard thrust of his erection.

  Thiago laughs softly. “You never were patient.”

  Patient? I grab a fistful of his hair.

  “I want you. Now.”

  If there’s an easy way to get wet leather leggings off, then I’m sure the Old Ones are laughing at me right now. Thiago has to take over, grabbing me by the hips and sitting me on the edge of the pool as he tears them down my legs. Thumbs dig into my thighs as he parts them and steps between them. The tiles are cold on my ass, but he doesn’t give me a chance to overthink it.

  Instead, his mouth is on mine again. Palms skate up the sides of my waist as he deftly removes my undergarments. He shreds the silk between my thighs with a hiss, his eyes dark with pure desire.

  “Fuck, I’ve missed this.” Hands curling under my ass, he hauls me closer.

  I have precisely two seconds to realize what his intentions are, and then the roughness of his stubble is marking my inner thighs.

  Blessed Mother of Night.

  Thiago’s hot mouth moves over my core, and his tongue is just as good as he proclaimed it.

  He makes me beg for mercy, fingers curling in his hair. I arch my spine and slam my head on the tiles, and still he doesn’t relent until I’m a sobbing mess shattered by pleasure.

  It’s only afterwards, when I come to with my head resting against his chest, warm and relaxed in his arms, that I realize he’s dragged me back into the water.

  Soft kisses brush against my temples. “Can you remember your name yet?” he teases.

  I lift my head off his chest, drowning in those green eyes. “I know you probably don’t want to hear this, but there’s a little piece of me that considers myself lucky to learn how good your tongue is for the first time, again and again and again.”

  “Oh, we’re not done yet, Princess.”

  He captures my mouth in another slow, drugging kiss, but I’ve got other ideas.

  “My turn,” I whisper, shoving him back against the wall.

  He allows me to pin him there. “Do your worst.”

  Water skates down his body, caressing each muscle. I lick my way down his throat, and Thiago makes a rough sound that ignites me. It’s like he’s helpless beneath my touch. This vicious, dark prince who could destroy the world if he desired it melts in my hands.

  My hand glides down his abdomen, and then it’s curling around his cock.

  Thiago hisses as I flex my grip, twisting and working him with a tight fist. A bead of cum dwells on the tip of him, and I glide my thumb over it, smearing it across him.

  “I’ve waited months for this,” he breathes, staring into my eyes. Grabbing my wrists, he lifts me back against the wall of the pool. “Months. I need to be inside you.”

  It’s not a question.

  And if it was, I answered that long ago.

  “You’re mine. Say it.”

  I shake my head, but then he’s biting my throat, rocking against me. The slick threat of his erection grinds against my clitoris, both a taunt and a demand.

  “Say it,” he breathes.

  I bite my lip, desperate to chase that elusive pleasure he’s offering. I can’t help myself. My mind holds no memories of him, but my body is a slick instrument he plays with familiarity. It knows him. It wants him. Bowing my head, I rest my forehead against his. “I’m yours.”

  Then he’s surging forward, the tip of him breaching me.

  And all I know is pleasure.

  40

  We lie in bed, Thiago’s fingers stroking down my spine. I’ve never felt safer than this moment in his arms. But there’s a lingering question that casts doubt over me like a cloud.

  “You’re Unseelie,” I whisper, into the night.

  I’ve wondered about it a million times, but he’s too perfectly formed. It’s only when his wings appear and his eyes darken that his Unseelie aspects rise to the surface, and I’ve never heard of anyone being able to do that before.

  Those fingers still, and then resume their gentle caress. “Where did you hear a lie like that?”

  He didn’t deny it.

  I roll over in his arms. “Is it a lie?”

  Shadows darken his face, and he glances down at my lips.

  “If you can’t trust me with the truth, then what sort of marriage do we have?”

  “It’s not you I can’t trust.”

  Or not the me that exists in this moment.

  Thiago sits up in bed, shadows caressing the ripple of his abdomen. Reluctance bleeds through his pores.

  “You’ve never asked me that before,” he says.

  “Maybe I never dared. I could see it in your face when we were fleeing Blaedwyn’s castle. And most Seelie don’t have wings, but some do.” I brush my hands against the sleek smooth skin of his back, where his wings should be. “Your eyes go dark when these appear.”

  He shudders, as if the sensation of my hands is too much. With a shiver that contorts his face, the wings appear. And the tattoos on his chest darken.

  My breath catches as I behold them.

  Those feathers are sleek and glossy, and spun from pure midnight. I always thought—or was told—that the Unseelie are ugly, beastly creatures, but he’s not. He’s beautiful in a way that makes my heart race.

  “May I touch them?”

  He nods.

  And then my hands brush against them. “Do you fly?”

  “I can.” His voice roughens. “Sometimes I need to escape the city and I head north, to the mountains where the goblin clans reside. There’s nothing more freeing than hurtling yourself through those icy peaks, risking death on the wind.”

  “But you don’t dare cross into Unseelie.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  He vanishes his wings. It almost seems as though some of his vitality and power disappear. He’s utter perfection in any form, but I love the wildness of his other side, the feral carnality of it.

  “Your shadows. Your Darkness. It’s your Unseelie side fighting to break free, isn’t it?” It’s the reason I’ve never seen those sorts of tattoos before. They’re not from the Seelie courts.

  Thiago laces his fingers through mine. “I’ll tell you the truth one day, I promise. If you stand before your mother’s court and choose me, then I will tell you the truth.”

  But not before.

  I tug my fingers from his. It’s clear he doesn’t think we’ll be able to break the curse. “Believe in us. Believe in me!”

  Thiago draws back, his mouth set in a thin line. “I’ve spent every day of the last thirteen years believing in you. That doesn’t negate the truth—everything we’ve tried has failed.”

  “The Morai said—”

  “The Morai speak in riddles,” he snarls. “Their words cannot always be trusted.”

  It makes me wonder what they promised him when he sought them out. There’s a reason they warned him never to return. I cross my arms over my chest, determined not to take offense. “They can’t lie.”

  I’d told him everything as we lay in each other’s arms. But I hadn’t realized that he didn’t feel the same surge of hope I felt.

  “It doesn’t mean they speak the truth,” he warns. “There are a thousand ways to word something, to make a fool believe.”

  “Are you calling me a fool?” My voice sounds cold, even to my own ears.

  Thiago freezes, as if he realizes he’s gone too far. “I think you want to believe them,” he replies carefully.

  If I don’t believe them, then we have no hope.

  And hope is the only thing I can live for.

  But it’s suddenly clear that whatever hope he held is gone, dying away like a guttering candle. I can’t entirely blame him. How many times have I promised my love? How many times have I forgotten it? The years have clearly taken their toll.

  “Perhaps I was the fool,” he says, “who wanted to believe.” He turns away from me, the muscles in his broad back quivering w
ith anger as grabs the poker by the fireplace and stabs at the fire. “They promised me the love of my life, though they never promised her heart in return. They said I could have a piece of her, but only a piece. I never understood what that meant until you forgot me the first time.”

  Crossing the carpets, I wrap my arms around him. His wings are gone, the darkness inside him vanishing. There’s only the prince, with his wicked eyes and his guarded heart.

  “I’m sorry.”

  I hate the way my mother stole him from me.

  And a little lick of fear curls inside me at the thought that she might do it again.

  How do I fight a curse when I have barely any control of my magic?

  How can I promise my heart when she might take it from me?

  End your life.

  End hers.

  Or find something with the power to undo the curse.

  “If I could lock you away,” he whispers, thumb stroking my hand, “then I would. I would defy your mother, defy the entire alliance if it meant forever in your arms.”

  Though I yearn to linger in his embrace, I shake my head. The other courts are too powerful, and he gave his word. “If you defy the treaty and keep me, then you play directly into my mother’s hands. If you kill her, then Asturia will march. And I won’t be the reason our peoples go to war.” I lick dry lips. “We could find someone who could break the spell—”

  “And what would they expect in return? No.” His hands tighten over mine. “We could flee.”

  Flee? I draw back sharply as he turns to face me. “Where?”

  The answer’s in his eyes. North. We could go north. Cast aside all allegiances and run into the Unseelie lands. We’d be on our own, constantly hunted by both of our kinds, but we might find freedom for a while. A chance to be together.

  “No.” I curl my fingers around his hand. “You’re not the only thing my mother stole from me.”

  And I want it all.

  My power. My magic. It feels like she’s stolen an entire lifetime from me, and I want the truth.

  “We face her. Together,” I whisper.

  Thiago brushes his thumb against my lips. This time, he doesn’t bother to shield me from the bleakness that crosses his expression. “Forever, Vi. You will always be mine.”

  How long does forever last?

  I don’t want to answer that.

  I lean closer, capturing his mouth, my tongue dancing with his. All hot and sleek. The caress deepens until he’s inside me again.

  Forever will last as long as we’re in each other’s arms. And maybe I don’t remember him, but as I gasp for breath, shattered by pleasure, I can’t help stroking my hands up his back, feeling the thick muscle where his wings should meet his shoulders.

  This prince is mine, and I will curse the entire world to keep him.

  No matter what I must do.

  Hours later, we lie in each other’s arms.

  My fingers trace the tattoos that drift across Thiago’s chest. Tension lingers in him at the touch, though he allows it, and his tattoos have started shifting in response, as if they enjoy being stroked.

  I can never forget their voices. The hunger in them, the viciousness. There’s no light in this Darkness of his, and yet some part of it yearns to be touched by light. Accepting him means accepting them.

  “Does it bother you?” he asks.

  To be married to an Unseelie prince masquerading as Seelie? It might have bothered me a few weeks ago, before I knew him for who he was. Before I faced the Morai and my own truths.

  “For thirteen years, you’ve been patient enough to wait for me,” I tell him. “You believed in me, even when I knew you not. You believed in us. I can do nothing else but return that trust.”

  Pleasure softens my fierce prince’s face. He captures my mouth with a swift kiss. “I forget what it’s like to be with you. You give me hope.”

  I can feel the heated press of his desire against me. “That’s not all I give you. Clearly. I won’t be able to walk tomorrow.”

  Thiago rolls over me, sinking between my thighs and resting his elbows beside my shoulders. “Were you planning on going somewhere? I was intending not to leave this bed for at least five days.”

  “Then I definitely won’t be able to walk.”

  He kisses the side of my jaw, his stubble prickling me. “I’ll carry you.”

  A laugh escapes me, and I cup his jaw. This is what happiness is. The laughter eases as I stare into his eyes and realize the days are running out. That infernal clock in my head is ticking ever closer to the Samhain rites, when I’ll have to face my mother again.

  I don’t want to let this moment go.

  I want to bathe in it until the shadows of the future can’t touch me. I want to drink it in and use it as my shield against the coming confrontation.

  I want a moment to remember, a moment that will brand itself on my skin until nothing can make me forget it.

  “Kiss me,” I demand.

  “As you wish,” he breathes, leaning in for a long, heated kiss.

  And for the next few hours he makes me forget it all.

  The curse. The approaching deadline. My mother’s wrath.

  Only this exists.

  Only us.

  Only this promise of darkness.

  41

  Days pass. Then a week.

  We spend the nights buried in each other’s arms, trying to ignore the tick of the clock. The days are given to courtly business. Angharad may have been driven back at Mistmere, but she’s out there somewhere, and Thiago is determined to find her. He sent an entire warband to clear the ruins and they returned yesterday, smiling with victory.

  So far, there’s been no word of the Erlking, though the full moon has not yet come again, and, judging from how quiet Blaedwyn seems to be, I suspect he’s busy.

  We argue about how to trap him again, and whether the Alliance should be alerted. But the Alliance seems to be shattered, my mother’s connection to Angharad making us wary. And the other queens may use the information to strike a cruel blow, rather than as the warning it should be.

  With Thiago’s mind busy, I give myself over to the idea of breaking the curse. I know Thiago’s last hope lies in his faith that this time will be different, but I can’t accept that.

  My mother’s stolen him from me twelve times.

  I don’t want to make it thirteen.

  Seven days until the rites, and I can feel the panic in my touch when I haul him into bed at night. At six days, I bury my nails in his back and make such marks they’re still there the next day. At five days, I tear the library apart, looking for answers. I still have Kyrian’s grimoire, but I’ve been through it a thousand times, and there’s nothing but lore about the Old Ones and black magic.

  And then the morning of the third day from the rites dawns, and the moment I wake, I know this has to be the day I find an answer.

  Or else, all is lost.

  I can hear Thiago arguing with Baylor in the stables as I hurry along the bridge that leads to the library. Most of the words are muted, but I can hear enough to know they’re arguing about Mistmere and the forthcoming rites.

  I don’t want to speak of them anymore.

  I am done with dwelling on my mother and her curse. I need a solution.

  It’s in the library that the truth first starts to stare me in the eye.

  Killing my mother isn’t an option. Even if I could bring myself to take that step, I know she’ll have a contingency in place. She’ll never let us have a moment of peace, even from beyond the grave.

  But the Morai gave me another means to break the curse. Seek one who is more powerful…. Thiago doesn’t want to take that option. He fears the consequences, but what am I supposed to do?

  Kill myself?

  Watch him die?

  Murder my mother?

  As far as I can see, finding someone who can break the spell is our only possible solution, but who? My mother’s a direct descendant of Maia, powe
r bred through her line through the ages. The Queen of Nightmares is her equal, but no friend of mine. The Unseelie queens are clearly working with my mother, and Isem, the only sorcerer with the skill to curse-twist, has no reason to help us.

  Besides, Angharad and Isem want to cut my heart out of my chest to summon the Mother of Night.

  That leaves me with Prince Kyrian and Thiago, and if either of them was strong enough to break the curse, they would have done it.

  The golden antlers on my hand wink in the candlelight as I turn the pages of the grimoire one last time. I’m owed two favors by the Erlking, but he’s no sorcerer. Powerful enough, yes. Could he break the curse? Possibly. Would he destroy my mind in the process? Also, possible.

  I turn the page, and there it is.

  The answer I’ve been looking for.

  The paper’s so old, it almost crumbles beneath my touch. Gilt lines the edges, and the image in the center is etched in black and silver ink. A serene face stares out from beneath a cowl, those black eyes locking on me as if the figure can see directly through the pages of the book. A triple moon is painted over her shoulder; a crescent, a full moon, and a waning one.

  Maiden. Mother. Crone.

  The Mother of Night.

  And as I turn the page, I swear she’s the woman I saw in my vision the night I drew the Sword of Mourning.

  The second I blink the resemblance is gone. But a shiver of excitement lights through me.

  Years and years ago, when she walked the realms, she was worshipped as a goddess that granted her powers to those who pledged their allegiance. She was the one who forged spell craft and taught it to the fae. The first sorcerer. The first curse worker.

  Granted, such powers were not given freely.

  No, they came at a cost.

  But if I don’t take a risk right now, then at the end of the week, I’m going to watch my mother execute my husband, and I’m not even going to know who he is.